Ancient Shores (21 page)

They looked in all the chambers along their passage. Gradually it struck them that these weren’t rooms at all in the standard sense. They were rather spaces in an endless variety of shapes. Some were too narrow to have been comfortable for human occupancy. Others,
like the room they had arrived in, were neither square nor rectangular, but had walls that came in at odd angles or that destroyed the symmetry of the space.

There was no furniture. And no sign of a staircase or any other rational means of getting from one floor to another. The color and texture of carpets and walls changed from place to place. And, perhaps strangest of all, they never found a window, leading to the inevitable suggestion that they were underground.

Max was ready to clear out the moment his companions dragged him out of the shaft, and he only waited for someone else to make the suggestion. Meantime, he busied himself with his map, although he was very cautious where he walked.

Lights continued to brighten before them and to fade behind. This effect created the mildly unnerving impression that there was always something moving just outside their field of vision. Max began to pretend he was working on the map while he watched out of the corner of his eye for some untoward movement. Eventually he saw it.

“Where?” asked Arky. “I don’t see anything.”

“Right there.” Max pointed at a turn in the corridor, which they had just rounded only a minute earlier.

“I saw it, too,” said April.

“Saw what?” The .38 appeared in Arky’s hand.

“The light changed,” said Max. “Look—there’s a bright patch back there.”

Air currents stirred.

The pool of light matched their own. Then, as they watched, it shifted toward them. The effect was that of being stalked.

“There’s nothing there,” said Arky, trying for a steady voice. “It’s just the lights.”

But they backed away, and the light flowed forward. April’s eyes widened. “Max,” she said, “can you get us back to the grid?”

Max was already consulting his map. “I don’t think
so. The only way I know of is back the way we came.” He looked toward the approaching light.

“That’s not going to work,” said Arky. They set off again in the direction they’d been traveling. The lawyer took a position in the rear. “Try to find a way around,” he said.

They went left at the first cross-passageway, hoping to find another place to turn again and get behind the thing in the corridor. (For Max had now begun to think of it as a
thing
. Every horror movie and vampire book he’d ever digested bubbled up in his psyche.)

“You know,” said April, “I keep thinking that everything connected with the ports seems to be laid out for visitors. Tourists. People riding a boat around a lake. The Horsehead. They’re vacation stops. Maybe this place is, too.”

“Is
what
?” asked Max. “A maze?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a funhouse.” They were moving at a quick walking gait. The change in illumination behind them was keeping pace. Finally April slowed and turned around, letting Arky draw abreast. “Hello,” she said with nervous cheerfulness. “Is anyone there?”

Max was behind April, watching the thing advance, backpedaling, fighting down an urge to run, when his vision blurred. Suddenly he was looking at her from the
front
. She blinked on and off, like an electronic image, and his head swam. His stomach turned over and he went down on one knee, fighting faintness. He closed his eyes, tried to shake it off, and saw her face, saw her lips moving, hands outstretched, eyes riveted. He was looking
down
from near the ceiling.

“Come on, Max,” said Arky. “Get in the game.” He pulled Max to his feet, then caught April by the shoulder and drew her back. Now they were in full retreat.

They ran through a wedge-shaped room into another passageway and turned left and then right.
Max’s head cleared quickly, probably from the adrenaline he was pumping.

“I think we lost it,” said Arky.

They were retreating across a wide chamber and around a shaft. They paused at the exit on the far side. When the lights didn’t change, Max tried to put his thoughts in order.

The way he did that was to assign the distorted perspective he’d experienced to his momentary weakness and to concentrate instead on getting them back to the grid. He’d always been proud of his directional sense. Even in this labyrinth, he was confident he knew which way they had to go. He showed them on the map. “We’re here,” he said. “And we’ve got to get
here
.” Roughly a mile away.

He took them out through the exit and into the passageway. A moment later they turned left and walked into the room with the grid.

A chill ran through Max’s stomach. “This can’t be right,” he said.

But Arky looked immensely relieved. “Max,” he said, “you’re a genius.”

Max was shaking his head. “Not possible. It
can’t
be the same room.”

They crossed the chamber, anxiously eyeing the other entrance, which was the one by which they’d left. Max looked at the triggers. They looked like the same set he’d seen earlier. The room
looked
identical.

April waved it away. “We’ll figure it out later. What bothers me is that this isn’t the way to handle first contact.” But she kept her voice down. “Running home is not going to look good when they write the history books.”

“To hell with the history books,” said Max. “The history books will only know what
we
tell them. Let’s go.”

“You really want to stay?” Arky asked her in a tone that challenged her to do it if she meant it.
Otherwise, don’t waste our time
.

“We’re going to have to come back,” she said. But she stepped onto the grid.

“Next time we’ll write.” Max punched the stag’s head and joined them.

The countdown was interminable. Max remembered having visited an empty house once as a boy and being frightened out by noises in the attic. It was like that, and when the light folded over them and the Roundhouse formed, he recalled how it had felt to escape back into the sunshine.

There was no indication of danger, so they reopened Eden to
the press and to researchers on the twenty-third. Groups crossing over were accompanied by a guide and a member of the security force. The tours went every two hours. People were fairly nervous about the method of transit, and some in fact backed out. But those who went invariably came back elated.

Everyone signed a release, although Arky warned darkly that such documents rarely influenced liability judgments.

Blood tests for April, Max, and all the security people who had been across came back negative.

April was pleased that Eden was finally a going concern, and she loved showing it off to the world’s academics. (As to the second terminus, which they had begun to refer to as the Maze, they decided to postpone further investigation until they had a chance to think things out. Max could not believe he’d got so completely lost and began to suspect that the second terminus was a sphere.)

She held informal conferences, and arranged special field trips when the requests seemed justified. She was beginning to think of herself as the Steward of the wilderness world, and she confessed to Max that she enjoyed being famous. They were all showing up on the covers of the news weeklies. A movie was being rushed into production, and early reports had it that she would be played by Whitney Houston.

Andrea Hawk was tending the port when two geologists came back through the system from the Eden terminus. They were bearded and gray-eyed, and both were talking. They seemed so deeply involved with each other that they did not even notice her. But one word caught her attention: “Oil.”

An hour later, it was the number one story on the wire services.

The main item during the plenary session of the General Assembly was to have been a motion by Tanzania suggesting a further weakening of global trade barriers. But the newspapers, which had been full of speculation about the star bridge in North Dakota, now carried stories that oil had been found in Eden.

If the delegates in attendance at the United Nations had found all the talk about other worlds and
dimensional intersections confusing and largely irrelevant to real-world politics (they perceived themselves as, if nothing else, hardheaded realists), they
did
understand oil.

Brazil was scheduled for opening remarks on the trade policy initiative. But everyone in the building knew where the conversation was going that morning.

The Brazilian minister was a portly woman with black hair and a thick neck and quick eyes. “The question before us today,” she said, “goes far beyond the issue of tariffs. We are looking at a new world, located in some curious way beyond, but not
in
, the United States. We do not have any details about this world. We don’t know how extensive it is or how hospitable it may be. So far, it appears to be
very
hospitable.” She looked directly across the chamber at the U.S. delegation. “Brazil wishes to submit to the members the proposition that this discovery is of such supreme importance to everyone that no single nation should claim sovereignty over it. The port should be open to all mankind.” The minister paused here to listen to a comment from an aide, nodded, and sipped her glass of water.

“Brazil is confident that the United States, which has always been at the forefront in arguing for human rights, will recognize the essential human right to explore and ultimately occupy this strange new place. We urge the United States to declare itself accordingly.”

Margaret Yakata could never have been a serious presidential candidate. While the country
might
be willing to accept a woman in the highest office, it was not yet ready for one of Japanese ancestry. And so Yakata had put away her own ambitions, which had taken her to the governor’s mansion in Sacramento, and used her considerable political influence to get the vice presidency for Matt Taylor.

Taylor had shown his appreciation by sending her to the United Nations, where she was respected as a champion of global cooperation on environmental matters. She had also shown herself to be a staunch advocate of collective security by supporting fledgling democracies wherever they arose. “Democracies,” she was fond of telling representatives of police states, “are the supreme hope for peace on this planet, because they do not make war on one another.”

Now she sat in her office at the UN, watching the Brazilian delegate on one screen and the president’s reaction on another. Someone handed the president a note. He read it without noticeable change of expression and then looked directly at her. “Iran,” he said, “is going to demand that Johnson’s Ridge be inspected by the UN and placed under international mandate.”

“They’ll get a lot of support,” said Yakata.

“I know. It’s a new stick to beat us with.” An expression of pain crept into his face.

“Mr. President,” she said, “a lot of people are scared about Johnson’s Ridge. Even the Brits are jumpy. They’re telling me they’ll vote with us if we can guarantee it’ll go away. Otherwise they’re reserving their options.”

“You heard about the oil?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“What do you think?”

“Considering what else may be coming out of there, I think it’s trivial. But it’s got everyone here thinking about natural resources. Is there gold over there, too? Uranium? Where does it end? Incidentally, I understand the Palestinians are going to demand land in Eden.” She grinned. “They’ll be supported by the Israelis.”

“This is a
nightmare
,” said Taylor.

“The Japanese want the Roundhouse handed over to the UN and destroyed. They say the port technology will destroy the global economy.”

“They won’t be alone,” said Taylor. “The whole world is terrified of discovering that it could get a whole lot smaller. Overnight.”

Yakata sighed. “Exactly how difficult would it be to reproduce the port technology, Mr. President?”

“We haven’t been able to get a good look at it yet, Margaret. But my people tell me that anything we can get a working model of, we can duplicate.”

“That’s what I thought. Mr. President, you’d know more about this than I do, but in my opinion the people who have been raising security concerns have a point.” She considered what she was about to say and did not like it. She was not among those who had lost faith in technology or in the human race itself. And yet…“Matt,” she said, “do you want a suggestion?”

He nodded.

“Kill the damned thing. Kill it dead. Arrange an accident. Discover that it has stopped working. Do
something
to put it out of business. Then, when it’s done, invite the UN to come have a look, so there won’t be any question about the identity of the body.”

Arky’s fax was pumping out paper on a full-time basis. Sonny’s Barbecue, Hooters, International House of Pancakes, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Steak ‘n’ Ale, and a dozen other chains wanted to put restaurants on Johnson’s Ridge. Sheraton, Hyatt, Holiday Inn, and Best Western had all submitted bids to build hotels. Albright REIT wanted to construct a shopping mall, and five oil companies were asking to install gas stations on the approach.

Some corporations were thinking about operations on the other side of the port. Lumber companies wanted to survey Eden’s forests. Real-estate developers thought that the beach beneath the Horsehead needed a boardwalk and hot-dog stands. Requests for oil surveys were coming in already.

A group calling itself Kurds for a Better World had sent an application for land, informing Max that they hoped to send sixty thousand people to establish an independent colony in Eden. Representatives of displaced peoples from around the globe were making statements to journalists that implied there’d be more requests of the same nature. A Poor People’s Crusade was forming in Washington and issuing demands.

“Maybe they’re right,” said April. “Maybe we should open it up and let everybody use it. What’s the harm?”

Arky frowned. “What happens if we try to settle and the owners show up?”

“I don’t think there
are
any owners,” said Max. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody in the Maze, but I think Eden is empty.”

Arky’s eyes flashed. “Maybe the owners like it empty. I would.”

“And that’s the real reason,” said Max, “isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“You don’t want anybody using the land except your own people.”

Arky started to deny the charge but only shrugged. “No one else will treat it appropriately,” he said. “Turn it over to any of these other groups, and within a few years you’ll have something that looks like downtown Fargo. At best.” He was looking past Max, focusing on some distant place. “This is a new wilderness. We allowed strangers to settle our lands once before. I don’t think we are going to make
that
mistake again.”

“We’re concerned about the port.” Jason Fleury peered at Walker through horn-rimmed trifocals. There was something vaguely unkempt about the man, a quality which contributed to an overall sense of self-effacing honesty. Not at all what the chairman had expected in a presidential representative. “Chairman,” he said, “I’m
sure you understand that what you have here is of such significance that it has become, in effect, a national resource. Are you familiar with what has been happening at the UN?”

“I am. People there are arguing that the Roundhouse belongs to the world.”

“And what is your reaction?”

“It is the property of the Mini Wakan Oyaté.”

Fleury nodded sympathetically. “I know,” he said. “I think I understand. But there are political realities involved. Tomorrow the United Nations will debate a motion that the U.S. be requested to declare Johnson’s Ridge an international facility. Under ordinary circumstances, the idea would be laughable. But the Roundhouse is a unique global problem. People are terrified of what will happen if its technologies become generally available. Some regional economies are already in a shambles. For example, the auto parts industry in Morocco has collapsed. The price of oil has fallen through the floor, and clothing industries in every major western country are dying.
Dying
, Chairman.” He dropped wearily back in his chair. “I don’t have to tell you what’s been happening to the stock market. Gold is way up, several major western banks have collapsed, capital investment everywhere is paralyzed. North Korea is threatening to nuke South Korea unless it gets access to the Roundhouse. We’re in a pressure cooker, sir. And something is going to have to give.”

An icy rain was rattling the windows. Outside, a school bus had pulled up, and children were hurrying into the building. It would be a tour group, kids trying to learn about their heritage. “We’re not unaware of these problems,” the chairman said. “It seems to me they result from widespread fear rather than from any tangible effect from Johnson’s Ridge. However, we are prepared to help.” He liked Fleury, who seemed a decent enough man. “We think what might be needed
is a review board that would pass on any proposals to exploit Roundhouse technology or information. And we would be willing to enter discussions to set up such a board.”

Fleury seemed pleased. “That kind of arrangement was our first thought, Chairman. But the truth is that we don’t think it would work.”

“May I ask why not?” The council had expected pressure to be brought to bear, but they had all thought their proposal was eminently reasonable.

“People don’t trust their governments anymore,” Fleury said. “They don’t trust them to be honest or to be competent. I won’t debate with you whether that’s a fair assessment.” A smile played at the corners of his lips. “The truth is, as long as the Roundhouse exists, people are going to be terrified. They will not believe that a board of review will be a sufficient safeguard. And, frankly, neither do we. Not over the long term. In any case, if people don’t believe it will work, it won’t work.”

Walker felt a chill creeping into the room. “What, precisely, are you saying?”

“I’d like to speak off the record.”

“Go ahead.”

Fleury got up and closed the office door. “The artifact has to disappear. It has to be destroyed. What we propose to do is to buy it from you. We will offer a generous amount, more than you could have got from Wells’s group. And then there will be an accident.”

The chairman nodded. “There will be nothing left.”

“Nothing.”

“How do you propose to arrange
that
?”

Fleury didn’t know. “Not my department,” he said. “Probably blow it to hell and claim it was an intrinsic instability or an alien self-destruct device. They’re imaginative.” He looked unhappy. “You’ll get a fair price. More than fair.”

For a long time the chairman did not move. When
at last he responded, his voice was heavy. “Some of our people,” he said, “are preparing to move over there.”

“Beg pardon?”

“We have been given a second chance, Mr. Fleury. A chance to remember who we used to be. That has nothing to do with government payments. Or reservations. Or a world so crowded that a man cannot breathe. No, we will keep Eden. And we will maintain control over the access point.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Mr. Fleury, we cannot do otherwise.”

The most lucrative segment of Old-Time Bill’s broadcasting empire was the morning talk show officially designated
Project Forty
but referred to off camera as
Brunch with Jesus
. At about the time Chairman Walker was speaking with the president’s representative, Bill was seated on the set of
Project Forty
, taping his show. He was surrounded by Volunteers, which was the official designation bestowed on all who joined him in working for the Lord.